Part 8 (1/2)

A boy named Peter Found once in the road All harmless and helpless, A poor little toad;

And ran to his playmate, And all out of breath Cried, ”John, come and help, And we'll stone him to death!”

And picking up stones, The two went on the run, Saying, one to the other, ”Oh, won't we have fun?”

Thus primed and all ready, They'd got nearly back, When a donkey came Dragging a cart on the track.

Now the cart was as much As the donkey could draw, And he came with his head Hanging down; so he saw,

All harmless and helpless, The poor little toad, A-taking his morning nap Right in the road.

He s.h.i.+vered at first, Then he drew back his leg, And set up his ears, Never moving a peg.

Then he gave the poor toad, With his warm nose a dump, And he woke and got off With a hop and jump.

And then with an eye Turned on Peter and John, And hanging his homely head Down, he went on.

”We can't kill him now, John,”

Says Peter, ”that's flat, In the face of an eye and An action like that!”

”For my part, I haven't The heart to,” says John; ”But the load is too heavy That donkey has on:

”Let's help him”; so both lads Set off with a will And came up with the cart At the foot of the hill.

And when each a shoulder Had put to the wheel, They helped the poor donkey A wonderful deal.

When they got to the top Back again they both run, Agreeing they never Had had better fun.

NOVEMBER

The leaves are fading and falling, The winds are rough and wild, The birds have ceased their calling, But let me tell you, my child,

Though day by day, as it closes, Doth darker and colder grow, The roots of the bright red roses Will keep alive in the snow.

And when the winter is over, The boughs will get new leaves, The quail come back to the clover, And the swallow back to the eaves.

The robin will wear on his bosom A vest that is bright and new, And the loveliest wayside blossom Will s.h.i.+ne with the sun and dew.

The leaves to-day are whirling, The brooks are all dry and dumb, But let me tell you, my darling, The spring will be sure to come.

There must be rough, cold weather, And winds and rains so wild; Not all good things together Come to us here, my child.

So, when some dear joy loses Its beauteous summer glow, Think how the roots of the roses Are kept alive in the snow.

LITTLE GOTTLIEB

Across the German Ocean, In a country far from our own, Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb, Lived with his mother alone.

They dwelt in the part of a village Where the houses were poor and small, But the home of little Gottlieb, Was the poorest one of all